Morning crept into the room in fragments—thin rays of sunlight slipping through half-drawn curtains, dust motes floating lazily in the air, and the soft hum of the city waking outside. It was the kind of morning that felt gentle, almost forgiving, yet Ada woke with a heaviness pressing against her chest.
She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling as memories of the night before returned slowly, like waves that refused to retreat.
The quiet dinner.
The restrained smiles.
And the way his eyes had lingered on her just a second too long.
Ethan.
Even his name felt dangerous inside her thoughts.
Ada turned to her side and exhaled, pressing her palm against the mattress as if grounding herself would calm the ache stirring inside her. She had told herself—over and over—that she would keep her distance. That she would not read meaning into small gestures. That she would not let her heart wander into spaces it had no permission to enter.
And yet… here she was.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table.
Her breath hitched before she even looked at the screen.
A message.
Ethan:
Did you get home safely last night?
It was simple. Polite. Careful.
Still, her fingers trembled as she picked up the phone.
Ada:
Yes. Thank you for asking.
She stared at the screen after sending it, waiting—though she didn't know what she was waiting for. A longer message, perhaps. Something warmer. Something that crossed the invisible line they both pretended didn't exist.
But no reply came.
Ada placed the phone back down, swallowing the disappointment she refused to name.
Ethan sat in his office an hour later, a cup of untouched coffee growing cold beside his laptop. His inbox was open, several unread emails waiting for his attention, but his thoughts were nowhere near work.
He reread her message again.
Yes. Thank you for asking.
So formal. So careful.
And he knew why.
Ada had always been like that—guarded, composed, as though she'd learned early in life that softness was a liability. He admired it. Feared it. Wanted to be the one person she didn't have to protect herself from.
But wanting was not the same as deserving.
Ethan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes briefly, reminding himself—again—that some hearts were not meant to be touched. Borrowed, maybe. Never taken.
The day passed in fragments for Ada.
She moved through her routine on autopilot, greeting colleagues, answering emails, smiling when expected. But beneath it all, her thoughts drifted—back to the quiet strength of Ethan's presence, to the warmth of his voice when he spoke her name.
Ada had known attraction before. She had known fleeting infatuations and harmless crushes.
This was different.
This felt like recognition.
That frightened her more than anything else.
By the time evening settled in, she found herself standing on her balcony, watching the sky fade into deep shades of indigo and gold. The city lights flickered on one by one, distant and impersonal.
She hugged her arms around herself, lost in thought.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, she didn't hesitate.
Ethan:
I was wondering… would you like to take a walk? Just for a bit.
Her heart raced.
A walk. Not dinner. Not coffee. Something simple. Something intimate in its quietness.
Ada hesitated, her thumb hovering over the screen.
She should say no. She knew she should.
But she didn't.
Ada:
Alright.
They met at a small park not far from her apartment—a place filled with winding paths, softly glowing lamps, and benches worn smooth by time and countless quiet conversations.
Ethan was already there when she arrived, standing beneath a streetlight, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. When he saw her, his expression softened in a way that made her chest tighten.
"You came," he said, as if he hadn't fully believed she would.
"So did you," she replied lightly, though her voice betrayed her nerves.
They began to walk side by side, the gravel path crunching softly beneath their feet. For a while, neither spoke. And strangely, the silence didn't feel awkward.
It felt… heavy. Meaningful.
"I didn't want yesterday to end the way it did," Ethan finally said, breaking the quiet.
Ada glanced at him. "It didn't end badly."
"No," he agreed. "But it ended unfinished."
She stopped walking.
He stopped too.
They faced each other beneath the glow of the lamplight, the world around them fading into the background.
"Ethan," she said softly, "some things are unfinished for a reason."
"I know," he replied. "And I'm not asking you to change anything. I just… didn't want you to think I wasn't thinking about you."
Her breath caught.
"That's the problem," she whispered before she could stop herself.
His gaze sharpened, gentle but intense. "Thinking about you?"
"Being thought about," she corrected. "It makes things complicated."
Ethan took a slow step closer, stopping just short of invading her space. "You don't have to carry that alone."
She laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. "I always have."
For a moment, he looked as though he might reach out to her. His hand twitched at his side.
But he didn't.
And that restraint—more than any touch—made her heart ache.
They resumed walking, slower now.
Ada spoke of small things—work frustrations, childhood memories, stories that barely skimmed the surface of who she was. Ethan listened as though every word mattered, as though she mattered.
When she fell silent, he didn't rush to fill the space.
That, too, felt dangerous.
"You know," Ethan said quietly, "I don't think you realize how strong you are."
She shook her head. "Strength is just what people call survival when it lasts long enough."
He smiled sadly. "Maybe. But you carry it beautifully."
She looked away, afraid he might see how deeply his words affected her.
They reached a bench overlooking a small pond, moonlight shimmering across the water. Ada sat, folding her hands in her lap. Ethan joined her, leaving just enough space between them to keep things safe.
Or so she told herself.
"I don't want to hurt you," she said suddenly.
Ethan turned toward her. "I don't feel hurt."
"Not yet," she replied.
He studied her face, then nodded slowly. "Then I'll be careful."
That promise—softly spoken, sincere—settled deep in her chest.
When they finally parted ways, it was with reluctance neither of them tried to hide.
"Goodnight, Ada," Ethan said.
"Goodnight, Ethan."
She watched him walk away until his figure disappeared into the darkness. Only then did she allow herself to press a hand against her heart, acknowledging the truth she had been denying.
Something had shifted.
Not dramatically. Not irreversibly.
But enough.
And as she returned to her apartment, she understood with aching clarity—
Her heart was no longer untouched.
It had been borrowed.
And she wasn't sure she wanted it back.